The Poetry Hub

I highly doubt that I'm the only one on Iridium who loves reading, writing and discussing poetry, so in the hopes that there are other like-minded individuals here on the boards- I present to you a place in which to share any and all things poetic in nature. If any of the poems posted below strike you in any way at all, please comment, even if you dislike them or disagree with something. My personal belief is that poetry does not have to rhyme and can be very free-form, and I embrace prose.

There we were,
A midst a sterling night,
Our lives not going right,
and I didn't even know we'd end up here,

Her beautiful brown eyes had me captivated,
Her strong will had me intoxicated,
and her herself, had me in bliss,
She said it was the conversation of her life,
and hours passed,
It was the witching hour,

Why does everything have to be so damn confusing, she said.

She lived for her daughter,
I was a loving father,
and we knew the moment our feet touched the floor,
reality would come back,
I told her to wait,
and with that,
she said..

I love you.

She fled, and it seemed so unfair to be left in such despair.
Why does everything have to be so damn confusing.

I come from a town popular for its poisons and their consumption,
All the locals are imploding, and most of our minds are corroding.
A big part of living here is some sort of liberal regression.
I'm filled to the brim from the effects of social tension.

Giving into impulse with familiar feelings, but unknown,
I started to tie a rope so I can leave without exiting home,
but I don't want to die here, this four cornered room won't serve as my coffin-
So instead, I took to packing my bags and wondered where I'd go.

At first, my mind drew a blank,
Secondly and put simple, I thought 'far away',
Thirdly I took action, and to my dismay-
I landed back in bed where I lay with my soul distraught..
Unless I get a move-on, my pain stays and my soul rots.

I'm ending this written piece, sadly with the notion that I'll sleep on it.
It seems this vicious cycle shall continue.

Chemically inclined to spend another night spoiled and pondered-
Soft thoughts spawn when I quench a sense-
felt best when bewildered by;
A gulped down "up," that helped settle a rut into a calm indifferent sigh.
The backwards infant memoirs, solemnly revelled from apathetic lullabies.

Personally- I'm under the assumption that I perceive a lot of my existence with a necessary bit of plausibly honest indifference.
Contemplated through an elapsed duration of my own irrational and wayward thoughts;
I've seemingly concluded that my consciousness felt more and more prone to dwell upon foreign eccentricities;
Being that of countless sorts, I sought to gratify my senses.

We felt several sensations of eclectic anxiety through jest,
In the basement of many- an irregular few too heavily medicated.
It was amongst these wild folk that I was struck!
To examine with them, again and again-
THEN I was caught! Without any sought social clues!
Right there and then, feeling f*cked-
I was wondering if the carpenters who nailed these med-heads' walls together, even survived.
What could they be doing with themselves now?

Spoiled nights spent polishin' off an ol' tramp's bread and wine.
Bewildered by soft, spawned thoughts- seldom to the chemically felt,
and best gulped backwards through apathetic contemplation.

"Brijesha Uma - Nahuel Coombs"Outwardly appearing as another finite man-
and epidermically wrapped in a pale and soft complexion of features,
this presence before me seemed fleshed from a variety of unmarked and blemish-free tissue,
common in frailty and softness to that of a newborn child.

Brijesha Uma Nahuel Coombs;
known as an abstract folk-tale explorer of distant lands.
He can plausibly retell to you;
“Scarless young men are unknowns- they’re unseen!”
Inwards and outwards tales speaking catchy bytes of sound,
Words of what- out of this folk-deity’s many delusions!

On whom frownst thou that ol' grief fawn upon,
In mending of the spirits he hath sown,
So dim lit, dark corners bend,
Calm they've been not,
So then I dare, traveller, rest souls despised.

Taken advantage of by a wily trickster:
Our ol' humble and eccentric governing rule,
He- a corporeal form of our own homes’ balance; Brij.
Truly a lawful embodiment of Krishna.
However- on eerie and drunkard waves of thought,
Weary of travel and mumbling art and experience:

Solving a series of puzzles:
I've sensed you trek across this land a many both to and fro-
In countless caught glances through many seasons passed!
With neither the utterance of a mumble or a slightly faint bristle,
A non-entity thats’ presence resonates social control!

With which tucked face hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
That thou in losing him shalt time bore much:
Breathed forth the sound that said you bait,
O! from what power hast thou blind spirits' sight,

In some sort of wayward, yet content conclusion:
He- a small fragment of lawful truth that passes over the subconscious.
The ghost of the tramp that just is- in the land of his own name.

(**NOTE: This is one of the first poems I ever wrote back when I was a wee-wittle teenager, it was inspired by a day I spent exploring a riverside with two friends during the end of winter. Its a little tough to read, and for that I apologize- however when I first wrote it, it was a solid paragraph with barely any punctuation! I hope you guys like it.)

I have felt delirious and gazed into the hypnotic infection of evil and insanity,
As I stood amidst the tombs and willows- I studied the design that the spirits created in return for another life,
and amongst the beds of the dead people, when I reminisced to the good old days,
I looked a stray to my enemy and behold; there she was.
A woman in green with an innocent smile and two shadows formed behind her.
These shadows took shape of lovers I known; a fiery formation of whiskey and symbolism to life, and the other girl cold, and shy.
This woman in green, to whom I’ve seen and the other two behind her.
I continued to wonder, why must this be, why can’t I flee, and a weird light was shining behind the silhouette that to my surprise was the hand of god, and on top of it was a native spirit laying back with a book.
I was ready to begin the ritual of decay until dismay took hold, and I appeared to be under the road.
A long and twisted0 bright bridge,
With cabriolets and horses crossing on top.
This area I consider a hovel, as it is a home to some type of others and as I stood there,
With grief I saw mother prepare to make her jump.
Another soul fallen under the ice, which quickly froze over and soon forgotten,
The artistic graffiti that the peasants make, would splatter on the wall marking their piece of cake, and a home to the mice who never live long...

The woman in green, the woman of fire, and the shy girl whom to me lost the will to inspire, would soon come higher as smoke filled the chaotic cries of butterflies and than we wandered down into the lake, where underneath was the sky with flowers on the clouds and while the girls wandered amidst heavens illusion I quickly fell up and found myself hitting the ground- or was it the sky?
This "ice" that grew and froze to die.
Mother approached me and grabbed my neck,
with black pits as eyes,
I drowsed into the flash back moments- in which we all heard of before we die,
and the three girls appeared before me again, throwing me in the sky,
but I fell into the institution...
A scary place with too many masked faces, and a facade of idiotic mortal beings,
a head ache or heart ache would best describe my punishment in this institution of dramatic illusion.
I felt reminded of my will of suicide, and than I was reminded of my reasons for life, and a war raged on in my head as the battle of life and death went on instead. Sadly death was taking control, and I felt the need to bleed internally, mentally and physically, and I fought the need to sleep for centuries.
I considered the philosophies, of poets like the insects of music, or the lizard king who fought for a spot in America, why the bugs of foreign land stole our minds.
I reminisced through my interests and dislikes and thought what it would be like to be liked or disliked,
and I can feel frozen tears make trails of ice down my face.
Why was I disliked, why was I a disgrace?
and now I felt erosion come from my chest, like a volcano and it’s blooming eruption of life.
I crossed time and space, with lotus’s surrounding me and I remembered the arts of Zen and Thai Chi, but I was never sure of what it could be.

I found myself in a dazed like state, naked in my automobile, driving down the highway of a downtown city during four in the morning, and instead of a car radio, the fiery girl held her record player and I was able to see and taste the music, as if I was evolving.
The girl in green was in the back seat, with her arms around my chair, just holding me tightly.
I felt so free and vigorously I turned the car into a tidal wave,
Strangely enough as it was, we found ourselves driving through the ocean,
and the shy girl who was in the back seat was humming to the chorus of the records song.
I could hear the lizard king call me his friend, and soon there was a chant about and of the end.
So soon I found myself gone with hands around my neck, sitting on the ice of the big white bridge.
and on the bridge; the three girls near me as we stared at the corpses that flowed down the river,
the messenger native walking on the water only to be supportive giving advice through the scarred soul I can see rather than the physical mortal form I was bewildered with in our previous life.
Masked children walked in the sky, as the lizard king sang.
It appeared they waited for the summer rain, and soon insects holding cannons or guns,
shot happiness throughout the west, and soon we sat on a patch of broken ice,
and the river reminded me of a hoard of mice,
or should I say a family that was hunting for a place to flee and scurried along with the corpses that flowed with it.

Among the flowers with wine beneath the sky
Alone I drink — no friend or kin, just me.
I raise my cup to toast the moon on high.
That's two of us; my shadow makes it three.
Alas, the poor moon knows not wine's delight.
My shadow follows like a living thing.
At last with moon and shadow I unite
In joyful bond, to seize the last of spring.
I sing: it sets the moon to rock in time.
I dance: my shadow cannot hold its place.
Sober, we share companionship sublime;
Drunk at last, we drift apart in space —
Lost to worldly things, until some day
We'll meet again, beyond the Milky Way.
​

• Witter Bynner's translation

From a pot of wine among the flowers
I drank alone. There was no one with me —
Till, raising my cup, I asked the bright moon
To bring me my shadow and make us three.
Alas, the moon was unable to drink
And my shadow tagged me vacantly;
But still for a while I had these friends
To cheer me through the end of spring. …
I sang. The moon encouraged me.
I danced. My shadow tumbled after.
As long as I knew, we were boon companions.
And then I was drunk, and we lost one another.
… Shall goodwill ever be secure?
I watched the long road of the River of Stars.
​

• David Hinton's translation

Among the blossoms, a single jar of wine.
No one else here, I ladle it out myself.

Sabrina—also known as Sabre, Severn, Hafren, Habrena—first appears in Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae (c. 1136). A princess who drowned in the river Severn, she later became a goddess associated with the river.

I'm only going to include the first part of the excerpt since it is rather long overall.

SPIRIT: There is a gentle Nymph not far from hence,
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream:
Sabrina is her name: a virgin pure;
Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,
That had the sceptre from his father Brute.
She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit
Of her enraged stepdame, Guendolen,
Commended her fair innocence to the flood
That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course.
The water-Nymphs, that in the bottom played,
Held up their pearled wrists, and took her in,
Bearing her straight to aged Nereus’ hall;
Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head,
And gave her to his daughters to imbathe
In nectared lavers strewed with asphodil,
And through the porch and inlet of each sense
Dropt in ambrosial oils, till she revived.
And underwent a quick immortal change,
Made Goddess of the river. Still she retains
Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve
Visits the herds along with twilight meadows,
Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs
That the shrewd meddling Elf delights to make,
Which she with pretious vialed liquors heals:
For which the Shepherds, at their festivals,
Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays,
And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream,
Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffadils.
And, as the old Swain said, she can unlock
The clasping charm, and thaw the numbing spell,
If she be right invoked in warbled song;
For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift
To aid a virgin, such as was herself,
In hard-besetting need. This will I try,
And add the power of some adjuring verse.

Ben Lerner - [by any measure]
By any measure, it was endless
winter. Emulsions with
Then circled the lake like
This is it. This April will be
Inadequate sensitivity to green. I rose
early, erased for an hour
Silk-brush and ax
I'd like to think I'm a different person
latent image fading

around the edges and ears
Overall a tighter face
now. Is it so hard for you to understand
From the drop-down menu
In a cluster of eight poems, I selected
sleep, but could not
I decided to change everything
Composed entirely of stills
or fade into the trees

but could not
remember the dream
save for one brief shot
of a woman opening her eyes
Ari, pick up. I'm a different person
In a perfect world, this would be
April, or an associated concept
Green to the touch
several feet away

I rack paper
Stacks on stacks
Jewels and spluge upon her rack
Nothings safer
Mainstream rap
Money, cars, ho3$
No more to life you need to know

Click to expand...

I guess this is poetry depending on the culture...homie. Sadly you just summed up about every single rap song out there.

Click to expand...

Disagree, but mostly with the last sentence. INF's post may have been a joke about mainstream rap though. I find rap music to be a dirty poetry, but not any less valuable. I use dirty to mean unpolished or crude, without the really negative stigma.

As for me, my favourite poem is A Break from the Bush, by Yusef Komunyakaa. The poem displays such a masterful control of mood. I used to write a lot of poetry, but I felt that I had neither a novel idea in me or a novel method of presentation, so I stopped writing as much. In my opinion, poetry is 70% impact and 30% rhythm. I do not harp so much on form if the poem demands to be felt. I used to believe that rhythm was negligible, but all of my favourite poems have some rhythm to them, whether it is invented or following an established metre.

---------------------

A Break from the Bush

The South China Sea
drives in another herd.
The volleyball's a punching bag:
Clem's already lost a tooth
& Johnny's left eye is swollen shut.
Frozen airlifted steaks burn
on a wire grill, & miles away
machine guns can be heard.
Pretending we're somewhere else,
we play harder.
Lee Otis, the point man,
high on Buddha grass,
buries himself up to his neck
in sand. "Can you see me now?
In this spot they gonna build
a Hilton. Invest in Paradise.
Bang, bozos! You're dead."
Frenchie's cassette player
unravels Hendrix's "Purple Haze."
Snake, 17, from Daytona,
sits at the water's edge,
the ash on his cigarette
pointing to the ground
like a crooked finger. CJ,
who in three days will trip
a fragmentation mine,
runs after the ball
into the whitecaps,
laughing

As for me, my favourite poem is A Break from the Bush, by Yusef Komunyakaa. The poem displays such a masterful control of mood. I used to write a lot of poetry, but I felt that I had neither a novel idea in me or a novel method of presentation, so I stopped writing as much. In my opinion, poetry is 70% impact and 30% rhythm. I do not harp so much on form if the poem demands to be felt. I used to believe that rhythm was negligible, but all of my favourite poems have some rhythm to them, whether it is invented or following an established metre.

---------------------

A Break from the Bush

The South China Sea
drives in another herd.
The volleyball's a punching bag:
Clem's already lost a tooth
& Johnny's left eye is swollen shut.
Frozen airlifted steaks burn
on a wire grill, & miles away
machine guns can be heard.
Pretending we're somewhere else,
we play harder.
Lee Otis, the point man,
high on Buddha grass,
buries himself up to his neck
in sand. "Can you see me now?
In this spot they gonna build
a Hilton. Invest in Paradise.
Bang, bozos! You're dead."
Frenchie's cassette player
unravels Hendrix's "Purple Haze."
Snake, 17, from Daytona,
sits at the water's edge,
the ash on his cigarette
pointing to the ground
like a crooked finger. CJ,
who in three days will trip
a fragmentation mine,
runs after the ball
into the whitecaps,
laughing

Click to expand...

Perhaps it is because I was listening to the Blockhead album: Music By Cavelight, when I was reading this poem, but the combination of the two gave off a very beatnik, hip-hop vibe that reminded me a lot of this monologue by Jack Kerouac. As for your poem though, those are the words of someone trying to cling to a little bit of forced happiness in the war zone.. Tough stuff. :/

---------------------

Jack Kerouac/ The San Francisco Scene (Beat Generation)

Now it’s jazz, the place is roaring, all beautiful girls in there, one mad brunette at the bar drunk with her boys. One strange chick I remember from somewhere, wearing a simple skirt with pockets, her hands in there, short haircut, slouched, talking to everybody. Up and down the stairs they come. The bartenders are the regular band of Jack, and the heavenly drummer who looks up in the sky with blue eyes, with a beard, He's wailing beer-caps of bottles and jamming on the cash register and everything is going to the beat. It’s the beat generation, it’s béat, it’s the beat to keep, it’s the beat of the heart, it’s being beat and down in the world and like ol'time low-down and like in ancient civilizations the slave boatmen rowing galleys to a beat and servants spinning pottery to a beat.

The faces! There’s no face to compare with Jack Minger’s who’s up on the bandstand now with a colored trumpeter who outblows him wild and Dizzy but Jack’s face overlooking all the heads and smoke. He has a face that looks like everybody you’ve ever known and seen on the street in your time; a sweet face. Hard to describe, sad eyes, cruel lips, expectant gleam, swaying to the beat, tall, majestical – waiting in front of the drugstore. A face like Hunke’s in New York (Hunke whom you’ll see on Times Square, somnolent and alert, sadsweet, dark, beat, just out of jail, martyred, tortured by sidewalks, starved for sex and companionship, open to anything, ready to introduce new worlds with a shrug). The colored big tenor with the big tone would like to be blowing Sunny Stitts clear out of Kansas City roadhouses, clear, heavy, somewhat dull and unmusical ideas which nevertheless never leave the music, always there, far out, the harmony too complicated for the motley bums (of music-understanding) in there.

With musicians here..The drummer is a sensational 12-year-old Negro boy who’s not allowed to drink but can play, tremendous, a little lithe childlike Miles Davis kid, like early Fats Navarro fans you used to see in Espan Harlem, hep, small – he thunders at the drums with a beat which is described to me by a near-standing connoisseur with beret as a “fabulous beat”. On piano is Blondey Bill, good enough to drive any group. Now Jack Minger blows out and over his head with these angels from Fillmore, I dig him – now it’s terrific. I just stand in the outside hall against the wall, no beer necessary, with collections of in-and-out listeners, with Verne, and now here returns Bob Berman (who is a colored kid from West Indies who barged into my party six months earlier high with Dean and the gang and I had a Chet Baker record on and we hoofed at each other in the room, tremendous, the perfect grace of his dancing, casual, like Joe Louis casually hoofing). He comes now in dancing like that, glad. Everybody looks everywhere, it’s a jazz-joint and beat generation madtrick, you see someone, “Hi,” then you look away elsewhere, for something someone else, it’s all insane, then you look back, you look away, around, everything is coming in from everywhere in the sound of the jazz. “Hi”, “Hey”. Bang, the little drummer takes a solo, reaching his young hands all over traps and kettles and cymbals and foot-peddle BOOM in a fantastic crash of sound – 12 years old – but what will happen?

I rack paper
Stacks on stacks
Jewels and spluge upon her rack
Nothings safer
Mainstream rap
Money, cars, ho3$
No more to life you need to know

Click to expand...

I guess this is poetry depending on the culture...homie. Sadly you just summed up about every single rap song out there.

Click to expand...

Disagree, but mostly with the last sentence. INF's post may have been a joke about mainstream rap though. I find rap music to be a dirty poetry, but not any less valuable. I use dirty to mean unpolished or crude, without the really negative stigma.

As for me, my favourite poem is A Break from the Bush, by Yusef Komunyakaa. The poem displays such a masterful control of mood. I used to write a lot of poetry, but I felt that I had neither a novel idea in me or a novel method of presentation, so I stopped writing as much. In my opinion, poetry is 70% impact and 30% rhythm. I do not harp so much on form if the poem demands to be felt. I used to believe that rhythm was negligible, but all of my favourite poems have some rhythm to them, whether it is invented or following an established metre.

---------------------

A Break from the Bush

The South China Sea
drives in another herd.
The volleyball's a punching bag:
Clem's already lost a tooth
& Johnny's left eye is swollen shut.
Frozen airlifted steaks burn
on a wire grill, & miles away
machine guns can be heard.
Pretending we're somewhere else,
we play harder.
Lee Otis, the point man,
high on Buddha grass,
buries himself up to his neck
in sand. "Can you see me now?
In this spot they gonna build
a Hilton. Invest in Paradise.
Bang, bozos! You're dead."
Frenchie's cassette player
unravels Hendrix's "Purple Haze."
Snake, 17, from Daytona,
sits at the water's edge,
the ash on his cigarette
pointing to the ground
like a crooked finger. CJ,
who in three days will trip
a fragmentation mine,
runs after the ball
into the whitecaps,
laughing

Click to expand...

Yes I certainly can see your point with it. I don't look at rap music the same way as poetry that's just me though.

Yes I certainly can see your point with it. I don't look at rap music the same way as poetry that's just me though.

Click to expand...

There are no worries, mate. I find that it is something of an acquired taste. And I say that not to be derogatory, but to promote the idea that most rap music takes repeated listenings to get used to.

On the subject of traditional poetry, another poem that I have really enjoyed was "I dreaded that first Robin, so" by Emily Dickinson.

---------------------------------

I dreaded that first Robin, so

I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I’m accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though—

I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by—
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me—

I dared not meet the Daffodils—
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own—

I wished the Grass would hurry—
So—when ’twas time to see—
He’d be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch—to look at me—

I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they’d stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?

They’re here, though; not a creature failed—
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me—
The Queen of Calvary—

Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums—

Click to expand...

Rap and hip-hop are in a way or another poetry (like most vocal genres), not to mention that hip-hop says a lot about the present, describing wants and needs for mostly impoverished communities (while it is true that most mainstream hip-hop raps about money, but this also says a lot about culture and materialism). But like the job of the poet is to capture what he sees and feels you can also see the rapper and Mc dropping verse about women, money, desperation, violence, crime, drugs, love, poverty, wealth, you name it.

Rap and hip-hop are in a way or another poetry (like most vocal genres), not to mention that hip-hop says a lot about the present, describing wants and needs for mostly impoverished communities (while it is true that most mainstream hip-hop raps about money, but this also says a lot about culture and materialism). But like the job of the poet is to capture what he sees and feels you can also see the rapper and Mc dropping verse about women, money, desperation, violence, crime, drugs, love, poverty, wealth, you name it.

Click to expand...

Precisely that. In my opinion, it is all so underappreciated and misconstrued. From The Minstrel Show to XXX, there is always something poetic to find.

Rap and hip-hop are in a way or another poetry (like most vocal genres), not to mention that hip-hop says a lot about the present, describing wants and needs for mostly impoverished communities (while it is true that most mainstream hip-hop raps about money, but this also says a lot about culture and materialism). But like the job of the poet is to capture what he sees and feels you can also see the rapper and Mc dropping verse about women, money, desperation, violence, crime, drugs, love, poverty, wealth, you name it.

Click to expand...

Precisely that. In my opinion, it is all so underappreciated and misconstrued. From The Minstrel Show to XXX, there is always something poetic to find.

Yes I certainly can see your point with it. I don't look at rap music the same way as poetry that's just me though.

Click to expand...

There are no worries, mate. I find that it is something of an acquired taste. And I say that not to be derogatory, but to promote the idea that most rap music takes repeated listenings to get used to.

On the subject of traditional poetry, another poem that I have really enjoyed was "I dreaded that first Robin, so" by Emily Dickinson.

---------------------------------

I dreaded that first Robin, so

I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I’m accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though—

I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by—
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me—

I dared not meet the Daffodils—
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own—

I wished the Grass would hurry—
So—when ’twas time to see—
He’d be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch—to look at me—

I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they’d stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?

They’re here, though; not a creature failed—
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me—
The Queen of Calvary—

Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums—

Click to expand...

Rap and hip-hop are in a way or another poetry (like most vocal genres), not to mention that hip-hop says a lot about the present, describing wants and needs for mostly impoverished communities (while it is true that most mainstream hip-hop raps about money, but this also says a lot about culture and materialism). But like the job of the poet is to capture what he sees and feels you can also see the rapper and Mc dropping verse about women, money, desperation, violence, crime, drugs, love, poverty, wealth, you name it.

Click to expand...

Actually, that's a very solid point you have there. I can definitely see it as a poetry of the present. I guess I wasn't really looking at it from that perspective very neat though!

I rack paper
Stacks on stacks
Jewels and spluge upon her rack
Nothings safer
Mainstream rap
Money, cars, ho3$
No more to life you need to know

Click to expand...

I guess this is poetry depending on the culture...homie. Sadly you just summed up about every single rap song out there.

Click to expand...

I am mocking rap, mainstream rap. Hip-Hop doesnt discriminate, that "party, party, get capital" aspect has its place, unfortunately that's all you've heard. there are plenty of great rap songs out there. you have to actively look for it, or else your liable to be left with that bad "party, party, more misogyny" taste in your mouth.

DISCLAIMER: There is a bunch of words in here that aren't really Iridium safe, but this is a poetry thread... I'd much rather the posts/thread deleted than censored.

"Da Mystery Of Chessboxin'"

[Wu-Tang movie dialogue]
The game of chess, is like a swordfight
You must think first, before you move.
Toad style is immensely strong, and immune to nearly any weapon-
When it's properly used, it's almost invincible..

[Verse One: U-God]
Raw I'm gonna give it to you, with no trivia
Raw like cocaine straight from Bolivia
My hip-hop will rock and shock the nation
like the Emancipation Proclamation
Weak MC's approach with slang that's dead
you might as well run into the wall and bang your head
I'm pushin' force, my force your doubtin'
I'm makin' devils cower to the Caucus Mountains

[Verse Two: Inspectah Deck]
Well I'm a sire, I set the microphone on fire
Rap styles vary, and carry like Mariah
I come from the Shaolin slum, and the isle I'm from
is coming through with nuff niggas and nuff guns
so if you wanna come sweating, stressing, contesting
you'll catch a sharp sword to the midsection
Don't talk the talk, if you can't walk the walk
Phony niggas are outlined in chalk
A man vexed, is what the projects made me
Rebel to the grain there's no way to barricade me
Steamrolling niggas like a eighteen wheeler
with the drunk driver driving, there's no surviving

[Verse Three: Raekwon the Chef]
Rough like Timberland wear, yeah
Me and the Clan, and you're the Landcruisers out there
Peace to all the crooks, all the niggas with bad looks
Bald heads, braids, blow this hook
We got chrome tecs, nickel plated macs
Black axe, drug dealing styles in phat stacks
I've only been a good nigga for a minute though
'cause I got to get my props, and win it yo'
I got beef with commercial-butt niggas with gold teeth
lampin in a Lexus eating beef
Straight up and down don't even bother
I got forty niggas up in here now, who kill niggas fathers

[Chorus: Method Man]
My peoples are you with me, where you at?
In the front, in the back killer-bees on attack
my people are you with me, where you at?
Smoking meth, hitting cats on the block with the gats

[Verse Four: Ol' Dirty Bastard]
Here I go, deep type flow
Jacque Cousteau could never get this low..
I'm cherry bombing shits... BOOM
Just warming up a little bit, vroom vroom
Rappinin is what's happening
Keep the pockets stacked and then, hands clapping and
At the party when I move my body
Gotta get up, and be somebody!
Grab the microphone go straight to the phone
DUH-DUH-DUH...enter the Wu-Tang zone
Sure enough when I rock that stuff
Guff puff? I'm gonna catch your bluff tough
rough, kicking rhymes like Jim Kelly
or Alex Haley I'm a Mi-..Beetle Bailey rhymes
coming raw style, hardcore
Niggas be coming to the hip-hop store
Coming to buy grocery from me
Trying to be a hip-hop MC
The law, in order to enter the Wu-Tang
You must bring the Ol' Dirty Bastard type slang
Represent the GZA, Abbott, RZA, Shaquan, Inspectah Deck
Dirty Hoe getting low with his flow
Introducing, the Ghost..face.. Killer!!
No one could get iller

[Chorus]

[Verse Five: Ghostface Killah]
Speaking of the devil psych, no it's the God, get the shit right
Mega trife, and you're I killed you in a past life
On the mic while you was kicking that fast shit
You reneged tried again, and got blasted
Half mastered butt style mad ruff task
When I struck I had on Timbs and a black mask
Remember that shit? I know you don't remember jack
That night yo I was hitting like a spiked bat
and then you thought I was bugged out, and crazy
strapped for nonsense, after me became lazy
yo, nobody budge while I shot slugs
Never shot thugs, I'm running with thugs that flood mugs
So grab your eight plus one, start flipping and tripping
Niggas is jetting I'm licking off son

(Wu, Tang, Wu, Tang, Wu, Tang, Wu, Tang!!!!)

[Verse Six: Masta Killa]
Homicide's illegal and death is the penalty
What justifies the homicide, when he dies?
In his own iniquity it's the
Master of the Mantis Rapture coming at you
We have an APB on an MC Killer
Looks like the work of a Master
Evidence indicates that's it's stature
Merciless like a terrorist hard to capture
The flow, changes like a chameleon
Plays like a friend and stabs you like a dagger
This technique attacks the immune system
Disguised like a lie paralyzing the victim
You scream as it enters your bloodstream
Erupts your brain from the pain these thoughts contain
Moving on a nigga with the speed of a centipede
and injure - ANY MOTHERFUCKING CONTENDER

I am mocking rap, mainstream rap. Hip-Hop doesnt discriminate, that "party, party, get capital" aspect has its place, unfortunately that's all you've heard. there are plenty of great rap songs out there. you have to actively look for it, or else your liable to be left with that bad "party, party, more misogyny" taste in your mouth.

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We are mentally synchronised, mate—much like great figure skaters, twirling and twirling. Throw me sky-high!

DISCLAIMER: There is a bunch of words in here that aren't really Iridium safe, but this is a poetry thread... I'd much rather the posts/thread deleted than censored.

"Da Mystery Of Chessboxin'"

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Lyrically, Wu-Tang is phenomenal and its affinity for kung-fu films is well shared, although the references are esoteric. It has taken a lot for me to get into the group though; their emphasis was more on lyricism than delivery, I feel. I am more of a fan of rapid delivery and solid impact. Fortunately, Wu-Tang is for everyone, even the children. Bless ODB. My favourite performer from the group is definitely Ghostface Killah. Although 36 Seasons was not as fantastic as I had anticipated, his previous work is very great. Also, if you want another great artist, look into Freddie Gibbs, and look into his tracks Barely M.A.D.E. It or Deeper. That gentleman is a master of his craft and Cocaine Pinata was wonderful.